


Breakwater

by Captain_Panda



Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brain Damage, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Drowning, Eventual Romance, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Permanent Injury, Protective Tony Stark, Recovery, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: Captain America: Civil WarAU.When the helicopter hits the water, Captain America and the Winter Soldier both go under. Only the Winter Soldier escapes.By the time Tony Stark and company find Steve Rogers, he's been dead for nearly an hour. Brought back from beyond the brink, Steve is a changed man.Things will never be the same.A breakwater is "a barrier that breaks the force of waves, as before a harbor."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953019
Comments: 51
Kudos: 231





	Breakwater

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, I did write this in one day. <3 I couldn't resist. I loved every moment and it ran a bit away from me.
> 
> Please heed the warnings. This does feature a permanently disabled character--there is a happy ending, but it involves no cures. The whump here may be less obvious than you think. Read and enjoy, my friends.
> 
> Yours truly,  
> Cap'n Panda

When they found Steve Rogers in the river, Tony really thought he was dead.

With his face as white as a sheet, deep bruises a navy mess across his throat, and the ragdoll appearance of the deceased, Steve did not resemble the rough-and-tumble musketeer that had charged after the Winter Soldier. He looked like a husk, a worn-out shell of his former self. King T’Challa found him, and King T’Challa urged them to get him to a hospital, even though it had been—God only knew how many minutes since he had gone underwater.

 _Where the hell is Rogers?_ had begun as an exasperated plea to the universe and morphed eventually into a real concern. About fifty percent of the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents leaned into the premise that he had gone ‘rogue.’ Tony wanted to lean that way, too, to believe that Steve Rogers had gone rogue and left them all to clean up the mess, but there was an unsettling feeling in his gut, one that only increased as they watched the security footage and asked themselves, _Did anyone actually see Cap leave the roof?_

The roof was barren and easy to rule out—security footage disproved the theory that he had returned the way he had come and was hiding somewhere else in the building—which left only two options: they flew off, or they went by the river. Twiddling his thumbs, Tony wanted to believe either option as viable. But without a suit, he could do little to assist search and rescue except watch as half the team split off to search by air, the other half by sea. He crossed fingers and toes in the hope that Team Air would be successful.

Then they pulled Steve’s star-spangled ass from the river, and Tony wanted to scream.

At least he wasn’t frozen, Tony uttered numbly, the thinnest consolation, because Steve wasn’t _breathing_ , and they’d been actively _looking_ for him for forty-eight minutes. Steve wasn’t even _alive_ , and he wasn’t _frozen_ , and that mean he wasn’t in _cryostasis_ ; he was well and truly _deceased_. There were, among them, doctors, and he could almost hear them saying it: _Time of death, 11:49 AM, Wednesday, May 4, 2016._ Steve was still two years shy of his hundredth birthday, Tony thought, resisting the urge to beat on Steve’s chest with one metal hand and demand that he awaken.

The part that didn’t make immediate sense to him were the marks of the beast: the deep blue bruises around Steve Rogers’ throat, washed over nearly the whole column of it, a shock of color in an otherwise perfect field of lifeless white. A part of him thought, _Impact?_ but he’d never known a splash-mark to form such a pattern; it wasn’t until he thought, _Attack?_ that he realized they were strangle marks. _Poor bastard_ , he thought, idly, like Steve Rogers was still alive and would surely recover and they could laugh about it, later, how the blue-collar lifestyle was really hitting Steve hard, huh?

They couldn’t laugh about it, yet, Tony thought, numbly watching them scramble to get air instead of water into Cap’s lungs, a familiar, warm hand curving around his upper arm and steering him away. 

“Barnes is on the run,” Rhodey said, his voice an unexpected balm. Tony leaned into him more heavily than he intended, nodding after a belated moment. Of course he was. Of course he was, he thought bitterly—Barnes had hit and run, _twice_ , and nobody had been able to stop him, not even _Captain America_. By all appearances, Tony wanted to say, but his mouth was too dry, Barnes had _killed_ Captain America. 

He hadn’t even known Cap could still be _bruised_ like that.

 _He’ll be fine_ , he chanted, over and over, as Rhodey led him to Sharon Carter and Natasha Romanoff, the only two sane people in the building—they had to find Barnes, _now_ , before he disappeared for twenty years, perhaps literally. That was a priority, he chanted, that was a priority, and he couldn’t let Cap’s brush with death daunt him. Rhodey was doing him a favor, actually, putting him in a room where he could be _helpful_ instead of the open air, where he could do nothing but _watch_ them attempt to revive a drowned man. They’d succeed, because Steve wasn’t really dead, and even if he was, the serum was robust as hell.

They’d succeed, by any means necessary, he assured himself. He’d stand and weep if it was Pepper or Happy, but it was Steve Rogers, and Steve was gonna be _fine_. No point in standing around, and twiddling his thumbs, now that they’d found the poor bastard.

They sent Sam and the Vision, of all people, with him. The Vision was the muscle; Sam was moral support. King T’Challa offered unexpectedly to take him home if their efforts proved unsuccessful. Tony hoped to God that wasn’t necessary, because it would mean that Steve wasn’t merely floating below the surface, graspable with a firm hand and a lot of umph—he was well and truly _gone_ , and they really were reviving a corpse.

 _Don’t think like that,_ he scolded himself, as he helped them zero in on Barnes, _helped_ , like it was a verb and not merely standing over people at computers trying to locate one man in a sea of humanity. This was why Project Insight would have been _helpful_ , he didn’t seethe, blood boiling as their old school piggybacking-off-of-security-cameras method soon led to dead-ends. Insight wasn’t about _murder_ , it was about _vigilance_. 

His design input had been very standard contract work—he had designed them to be highly photosensitive, able to recognize faces from fifty thousand feet in the air and refueled without landing, effectively permanent weather balloons. Oh, there had been a _chance_ that the idea could have fallen into bad hands and be used for great evil, but the very Star Wars program that had gotten them to the _Moon_ hadn’t been conceived in friendliness, and their missions had, insofar, been nothing but peaceful. They couldn’t shy from the ocean just because they couldn’t see what lurked at the floor—to take the leap and use ever-advancing technology in the name of world peace was a moral _good_.

 _Then why does this shit always go south?_ he wondered, staring at a screen a techie was talking about but not hearing anything. Ultron had been such a disaster people were _still_ talking about it—namely, the damage he had caused, and the person who had thought it was a _good idea_ to unleash a super-robot on a defenseless populous. Even Tony Stark hadn’t conceived just how malevolent a creation of his could be—J.A.R.V.I.S. was such a _sweetheart_ , and took _years_ to program to an operational level, never mind a level resembling human sentience—and the cold shock of seeing a killer swagger and spout his own wordplays was haunting.

 _I have made my own monsters_ , he thought, almost glad, for once, that it was the Winter Soldier causing the mess, for a change of pace.

Leave it to him to make a real bid for the Nobel Peace Prize and accidentally direct a meteor at the planet, he thought with grim humor, ears fuzzing so he barely heard someone mention that they were taking Cap to Wakanda.

Then he full-stopped, said quickly, “I need to be on that plane,” and, after many glances were exchanged among a handful of people, he was shooed into the back of it.

Rhodey had to stay behind, but the Vision was there, sitting like a preschooler, back neat but hands on his knees, looking somehow . . . _chastised_. “You all right, buddy?” Tony asked him, texting Pepper, _Everything’s fine, we’re handling it_. 

“I . . . feel great distress,” the Vision confided, which made Tony look up, surprised. “I believe my . . . sympathetic programming has been activated.”

Tony hesitated, but it was _his_ non-killer robot talking. He laid a hand on a bright red knee, giving it a squeeze. The Vision watched Tony intently, learning. “S’gonna be okay, buddy,” Tony said. “He does this all the time. Really inconvenient of him,” he added. It was very hard to joke with a robot, who just looked back at him, hopeful and remorseful. “Look, believe it to be it,” he said bluntly. “If you don’t _think_ —”

“I detect no life-signs,” the Vision said quietly, speaking only to him. “I could not find him, because I could not detect any life-signs.”

Tony blinked, hit unexpectedly hard by the simple statement. He squeezed the Vision’s knee again before releasing him, saying simply, “It happens. Just wait. It’ll be fine. Solve this,” he added, pulling out his tablet, selecting a file labeled, _P vs NP Problem_. It was one of seven Millennium Problems, unsolved mathematical questions, and no human alive had solved it. The Vision looked at the screen, scanning the text, suddenly very intent. He did not speak to Tony for the remainder of the flight, totally absorbed, in his element—a child in most situations but a genius in arithmetic, geometry, _problem-solving_.

“I can’t,” the Vision said as they landed, two hours later.

Tony nodded, not surprised or disappointed, but the Vision seemed deeply sad as Tony took the tablet away from him. “I have failed,” he observed.

“No—no one’s solved it,” Tony confided, tucking it away. “Not even me,” he added, shivering once in relief as their Quinjet touched down.

“I have failed _you_ ,” the Vision insisted, mournful and sincere.

Tony sighed, squeezed his knee one last time, and insisted, “No failure in this family. It’s too close to regret.”

* * *

Wakanda was . . . honestly, Tony would have killed to be a tourist, _just_ once, to explore freely, to sample the food—God, he was hungry—the _art_ , the hills and valleys and people who lived near them. It was like a glimpse of the future, refined, well-organized, and above all else, _inspiring_. He was addicted after one hit, determined to persuade T’Challa for just _twelve hours_ in the heart of the city; dying to _experience_ it. 

He would even swear on sobriety, even though he could only imagine what varieties of hard drinks the Wakandans had devised. It wasn’t an overcrowded, tourist-riddled city—there was an undiscovered magic that nearly pulled him away from his true purpose altogether, hypnotic.

But they weren’t there to experience the city, or its people, their scientists and artists, their everything-in-between. They were there for the best medical care in the world, because one of their own was dead.

It seemed like one long blink between disembarking from the Quinjet at dusk in Wakanda and stepping into a super-sterile hospital room, the Vision once again beside him. It was surprisingly spacious, easily large enough to accommodate a family—Tony had the strong impression that only the most ill ever dwelled in these kinds of rooms. It was certainly true of the man on the bed, who was still as dead as the moment they’d hauled him out of the water like a fish carcass. He was hooked up to half a dozen machines, including one that was breathing for him, keeping him alive until he elected to take over.

 _Please take over_ , Tony thought, unable to move an inch past the threshold even though Sam and, oh, hey, Natasha, were there. Sam was sitting right by Cap’s feet, as close as he dared, it seemed. He looked like a man who’d had a hard day; Natasha was standing at the window, looking out at the city, absorbing it all. _Planning an escape?_ Tony mused, stepping towards Sam, not Steve, and resting a hand on his shoulder.

Sam grasped it, more tightly than Tony anticipated. He held on for an uncomfortably long moment. Then he let go. “If he doesn’t wake up in the next twelve hours,” Sam began, speaking with military precision, before halting abruptly, unable to state the obvious.

“He will,” Tony said, clipped, certain. He looked at Natasha, who didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice. “What about you?”

“What about me?” she asked without turning.

“You an optimist? Or a realist?” He didn’t mean to phrase it like that, adding, “Team Cap, all the way, right?”

Sam released his hand, letting out a sigh and saying, “We got time.” He sounded like he was on the verge of begging Cap to wake up. Tony wasn’t far behind, even as he assured:

“It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. Just you wait. You’ll be throttling him in three hours, when he tries to prison-break.”

* * *

It was four hours, actually. Close enough.

Tony’s heart actually skipped a beat, then beat too fast, when a thin moan issued from the head of the bed. He and Sam had been playing cards at his feet, just like the damn painting of old, angels and demons wrestling for the life of one man. He didn’t like to think of himself as the demon, but at least he wanted Steve to live just as badly as everyone else in the room, thank you, and when both their gazes snapped to the head of the bed, Tony practically shoved the cards off his feet and said, “Hah! I win.”

As his prize, he got to help prevent Steve from violently ripping out the breathing tube. Leaning into the Vision’s help so hard he vowed to buy the robot a lollipop when all was said and done, he directed the Vision to hold his arms, which he did, immovable, a _robot_ , and no matter how strong Steve was, he wasn’t _Infinity Mind Stone_ strong. The Vision could have broken both his wrists without even trying, and Tony advised, “Don’t hurt him,” preemptively.

But now that he was alive and kicking—almost literally, Tony kept his distance—the Vision could detect things like pain cues, could tell if a bone was creaking or breaking. It was fine. “Cap!” Tony said loudly. Cap actually paused, like a light had been switched on, casting away phantoms. His breathing sounded horrible, loud and mechanical, forced.

Even without the tube—thankfully removed by more professional hands than Cap’s—his breathing was loud, panicked. “Hey, focus up,” Tony said, not _hiding_ behind the Vision, no, but certainly not denying him as a shield. “Cap?”

A strange sound, _Dohne_ , slipped out of Steve’s mouth. Tony said, “You got it. We’re in Wakanda. You believe it? The admission fee is staggering. Near death experience—”

“Dohne,” Steve repeated, the word slurred almost incomprehensibly in his mouth but—well, if that wasn’t his name, he wasn’t a genius.

“Yeppers peppers,” Tony said. “Gonna bite?” He pressed a hand against Steve’s wrist. Steve’s breathing hitched—he slowly turned his head to look at it, and Tony retreated before he could latch on. “Hey, you were dead for a hot minute,” he said. “Maybe stop doing that?”

In response, Steve’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp.

“Of course,” Tony uttered, because nobody on this goddamn planet could work _with_ him.

* * *

Everyone was relieved, yes, very relieved that Captain America was alive. Tony, not least among them—they were the Avengers, and it wasn’t long ago that they were side-by-side, kickin’ ass, taking down Hydra bases. That this had happened mere days after the failed Accords signing was not ideal, and the hunt for Barnes was on in earnest—Tony, himself, wanted a chance to throttle him for those deep, deep bruises still visible around Steve’s neck, barely fading—but Cap was alive, and that was really all that mattered.

Really.

“S’gon on?” Cap asked, his voice low, almost lowing, not merely slurred but confused.

“We’re in Wakanda,” Tony said, sitting near his feet. Then: “King T’Challa invited us. Prince T’Challa,” he amended. “It’s a long story.”

“ _S’gon on?_ ” repeated Cap, louder, more distressed.

“You got hurt,” Tony tried again. Cap stilled, and then, slowly, looked down at him. His eyes looked right through him. “You were under for . . . a while. But!” He clasped his hands together; Steve flinched from the sound. Of course—couldn’t do anything, no matter how simple, without mucking it up, Tony thought, patience frayed to the thinnest strands. “You’re alive. I’m alive. Everyone’s alive.”

“Sss . . . Dohn . . .” He struggled with the words, more than Tony had ever heard him struggle—he’d sounded more coherent with a broken _jaw_ , addressing a worried public in tight, clipped sentences after being shot in the face in one of the earliest assassination attempts. Turned out, some people didn’t _love_ Captain America. What a strange concept, Tony thought, stomach twisting, laying a hand over Steve’s foot, hidden beneath a surprisingly warm blanket.

“I’m here,” he offered.

“Dohne,” Steve repeated, relieved, eyes hooding, looking at him and struggling forward despite Tony’s chanted, _Hey, hey, hey, lay down, lay back_ , not because he was afraid, God, no, but—well, he didn’t want Steve to hurt himself, that was all. Steve fumbled for him with one hand, and Tony—let it never be said he was without compassion, he thought, sucking in a breath and sliding his chair closer so he could grasp it.

Steve’s grip was limp but shaking, and Tony could tell he was _trying_ to hold on but some wires were crossed. “It’ll be fine,” he promised, squeezing it. Frustration furrowed Steve’s brow, his hand just curled loosely around Tony’s, shaking hard. “It’ll be fine.”

He wanted it to be, so it had to be.

* * *

It was hard to tell, at first, _what_ was wrong. Mechanical issue, or—

Tony dared not entertain the latter. But he was too smart to miss the signs: Steve’s jaw was fine—scans showed it surprisingly intact, given how dark his throat was. Despite surficial bruising, his throat had healed up, leaving only a thin whistling quality to his breathing that, in time, would vanish. But the way he muddled words, the way he wasn’t _tracking_ conversations even wide awake, alarmed Tony to the bone. _This is temporary. It will pass_.

It was impossible for dauntless Captain America to speak on his own behalf when he couldn’t even answer a simple _yes-no_ question beyond a low moan that could have been either answer, so it was up to the people around him to phone in to former S.H.I.E.L.D. and other interested parties and lie: _He’s doing great. He’s awake, he’s healing_. 

They didn’t bring up that Cap wasn’t really talking beyond confused queries and the occasional moan. They didn’t mention that his hands shook, that he couldn’t grasp at them properly even as he reached for them. 

He seemed unfocused. _Concussed_ —and it wasn’t until they got him in a CT scan, crying, _crying_ , and begging not to, until he abruptly seemed to grasp what was happening and went limp, and scanned his head, and found the truth.

Tony felt the oppressive quality of that moment, gazing at all the dark spots on Steve Rogers’ brain, lights that wouldn’t come on again. He felt like he couldn’t understand it, even as the doctor explained that it was brain damage, and it was bad—global, and irreversible, as if any brain damage was _reversible_ , Tony wanted to sneer, unable to even hear or argue with him as he stared and stared and stared at the imaging.

He brought it to Steve himself, showing him a tablet with the scans. Steve struggled to touch the screen and move from one scan to the next, a frustrated sound slipping out of him once. “Can you believe this?” Tony asked him, letting him struggle with it, offering no aid. Steve knew how to call for him, even in his— _please, be broken_ —perfectly normal jaw. “Fucking nuts.” Steve arrived at the end of the images and tried to return to the start, but the simple movement seemed to evade his shaking fingers.

Without warning, he shoved the tablet, very intentionally, off the bed. His anger was a palpable thing, his frustration and confusion, and when he pawed around for the IV again, Tony caught it but said simply, “Let’s go home.”

Steve didn’t look at him, frozen in place, one hand on his own wrist, Tony’s over it, holding it there. The tremors were strong, disconcerting.

“Let’s go home,” Tony insisted, paging the nurse with his free hand.

* * *

And so they did.

Steve wet himself on the two-hour plane ride. Tony wasn’t even sure if Steve was awake, gazing out the window they had parked him in front of, but Tony buried himself purposefully in the _P vs NP problem_ balanced between the Vision’s hands— _I would like to try again_ , the robot had insisted, as soon as they had taken off, and Tony had passed it to him without a word—and ignored the wretched misery radiating from Steve. 

Clint had thrown up on the back of Tony’s shoulder, once, after a hard knock to the head and an admonition not to do it, which was probably _why_ the universe had conspired so heavily against Tony. The moral had been simple: expect nothing to go according to one’s liking. Tony did not even mind the act itself, did not _care_ , he had vomited in plain view enough to have little shame about it, but he did not need to ask to know that Steve Rogers was ashamed, absolutely, oppressively devastated.

There was no handy joke, no way to show solidarity. He was extremely glad that Sam was the one who stepped up to help Steve shuffle off the plane at their designated checkpoint, along with the Vision, for damage control.

 _Everything’s gonna be fine_ , Tony told himself robustly, as they arrived at the media checkpoint and carefully shuffled a six-foot-two blond-haired, digital-mask-wearing lookalike off the plane, to flashing lights and media queries. “Steve” held up a steady hand a few times, his face locked in a feigned grimace but forcing a small smile, and Tony had to hand it to the believability—he almost offered a reassuring, _You okay?_ hand squeeze before reminding himself that it wasn’t really Steve in his one-armed hold. It was good, he thought numbly, making sure his own expression wasn’t too dire, _give nothing away_ , that they were seen together, Iron Man supporting Captain America. It felt like an accords of its own, like they had come to terms with something.

Tony spent an hour and a half on the ground with the fake Cap, getting him set up and making sure the media was _well_ off their tail before shaking the guy’s hand, telling him to continue laying low, and driving six hours to Steve Rogers’ real location.

* * *

“I brought peanuts,” Tony announced, waving a half-eaten bag of gas station salted peanuts. He shuffled half a handful into his mouth, then offered it to Cap, who was seated again in front of the window, wearing fresh, pedestrian clothes. He didn’t even respond to Tony, eyes half-open but mind far away. “Here,” Tony insisted, grasping a cold, limp hand—a thrill of horror shooting through him, before it twitched a little, _life-signs_ —and pouring the rest into it. “Try them, they aren’t half-bad when you haven’t eaten in two days. I’ve never done that,” he deadpanned.

The peanuts trickled out of Steve’s hand, but Tony caught it and insisted, “No, try it.”

Steve’s mouth twisted down. Tony could almost see the exasperated _Dohne_ there, but he didn’t have the energy for it, or the will. Deliberately, malevolently, he turned his hand upside-down, spilling peanuts on the hardwood.

“Fine, no peanuts,” Tony shrugged. “You gonna sign the accords? We’re buddy-buddy now,” he huffed, dragging the heaviest wooden chair over and wheezing, “They don’t make these lightweight. What? There a Hydra spy out there?” He sat down hard, then frowned at the Vision, standing stock still in the field and looking down at his hand. “What?” he repeated, until he saw the little Monarch butterfly perched on the Vision’s hand. “Think it’s a sign?” He crumpled the empty peanut bag into his pocket, crushed the remains into powder under his shoes.

Steve hummed. It wasn’t particularly optimistic-sounding, if Tony had to categorize it.

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “So. About those Accords.”

Steve reached out a shaking hand and rested it on Tony’s knee, still looking out the window.

“Think it’s a sign?” Tony repeated, reflecting on the botched Accords signing and wondering, for just a moment, the _why_ behind Cap’s _no_. Tony had had his own doubts, at first—his hackles had gone up at the first whiff of _government oversight_ , not least after the whole _S.H.I.E.L.D. is Hydra_ debacle—but maybe, just _maybe_ turning over the wheel to someone else would not have been the end of the world. Just once.

Tony rested a hand over Steve’s. Steve’s was cold and shaking. Tony had no idea what it meant. _Greatly ill_ , Tony’s body supplied. _Never getting better_ , his mind replied.

The butterfly took off. The Vision bid it, “Have a nice day.”

* * *

“I know you’re frustrated,” Tony said, as Steve breathed, harsh and deep, struggling to sort silverware into clearly marked drawers.

“Dohne,” Steve said, and it was as heavy and hard to read as that first day in the sterile white room. He dropped the fork on the floor, a pained grimace crossing his face. “Can’,” he croaked. “Can’t.”

Tony left the fork where it was and steered him back into the living area, urging him to sit on the couch, flopping down beside him. 

Tony stared down at his hands, lost—steady, but so damn _lost_.

It had been a week since they had returned stateside and Steve Rogers still couldn’t put a square in a square-shaped hole, multiply, or do anything more complex than point to objects he wanted or reject those he didn’t. _Can’_ and _Dohne_ had become his most frequently used words. There was nowhere for him to hide.

Tony was still so deep in denial he still expected Steve to wake up at any moment and ask where the hell they were. _Rural Wyoming_ , Tony didn’t answer. _Pretty, isn’t it?_

Leaving Steve where he was, Tony got up and took a short walk. _Short_ being the operative word—he’d never been a _stop and smell the roses_ guy before the stint in the desert, but these days, even venturing around the valley for ten, twenty minutes could leave him breathless. He returned to their little cabin in the woods and promptly ignored Steve, who had moved to the chair by the window, watching the scenery, waiting for a storm two hours away to roll in.

Steve knew he could seek Tony out if he wanted him. It had still been a shock to have a super-soldier land on him in the middle of the night, tripping over a bag Tony hadn’t thought to move beforehand, but it _had_ confirmed that Steve had understood the suggestion: _If you need me, just find me_.

Even though he tried to ignore Steve, Tony still got antsy being away for too long, imagining finding him facedown in a puddle of water. 

Sam was around—Sam was _great_ , Sam made the best grilled cheese he’d ever eaten and let him have one if he asked nicely, which wasn’t in his DNA but translated to, _See if Steve wants one_ , and Steve would nod, lick his lips, and suddenly Tony wouldn’t want a sandwich anymore, because he could still _ask for it_.

God help them all, Tony thought, realizing he was, in no way, shape, or form, ready for the bombshell.

* * *

_This is permanent_.

* * *

Somehow, it was watching Steve try to tie his shoes that did Tony in.

Steve actually managed to knot them—incorrectly, barely on his feet, and then spent the next three decaying minutes trying to untangle them to try again. By the time he wrenched them apart, made a shaky-handed attempt to fix it, Tony said, “This is permanent. Isn’t it?” like a forbidden observation. 

_You never tell them they’re dying. You tell them they’re gonna be fine._

Steve paused, looked up at him, squinting just a little, like he could not focus on Tony, and then turned back to the shoes. He tied them, again. It was the same mess as before, but he seemed satisfied, or simply done with it.

Tony walked away, trampled down the short hill, gasping for breath. Not crying—he did not cry, crying would only open a gate he could not close again. He berated himself, _Idiot._ _Go home. You don’t belong here_. At some point, he realized he was waiting, waiting for Cap to come back, for Cap to tell him everything was going to be _okay._

Standing at the base of the hill, Tony heard Steve approach. He had never heard Steve approach before, not so clumsily, not so obviously, a wooden staff under one palm. He marched down the hill while Tony drew in shivering breaths and tried not to cry.

It was not Tony’s fault. If anything, it was _Steve’s_ fault—Steve had run, Steve had chased down a time bomb, and it had blown up in his face. These were the pieces. It was not Tony’s obligation to pick them up.

Step. Step. Steve’s feet crunched over the leaves. What had taken Tony less than two minutes to traverse took Steve nearly twenty, but at last, triumphantly, he stepped down to the same level, and Tony turned to look at him.

Steve paused, cane— _cane_ —in hand, jacket on but unzipped— _need a better coat, bigger buttons, maybe clips?_ Steve’s eyes were doleful, full of sorrow but not for himself.

Tony said, “I’m angry _for_ you.”

Steve just stared at him, unswayed. Slowly, he lifted his free arm, gesturing Tony forward.

Numbly, Tony said, “I should go.”

“Dohne,” Steve insisted gently.

Gently. Fuck. Tony’s eyes were burning. “I’m sorry,” Tony said limply. His chest hurt. He felt very cold. It was goddamn November in the mountains; might as well have been, in the first gasps of _May_. “I didn’t have a suit,” he said, like that justified it, shoving his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t _reach_ for Steve.

“S’ouk,” Steve said. “S’ouk—k-kay.” He gestured Tony forward again.

Tony finally stepped towards him, planting his forehead against Steve’s shoulder. Steve let go of his cane so he could wrap both arms around Tony, swaying a little unevenly before planting a foot and finding equilibrium. He was still built like a tank, still _warm_ and solid and, if he didn’t speak and breathed as evenly as he could and didn’t rub Tony’s back with a shaking hand, Tony could imagine Steve was _fine_.

 _I need you, Cap_ , Tony thought, gripping Steve’s shirt in both hands. _I_ need _you_.

Tony pulled back and looked at soft blue eyes, watching Tony intently before losing focus, drifting away slightly. “Walk?” Steve rasped.

Tony’s heart beat very quickly. He nodded once, shaking all on his own as he crouched, picked up the staff, and put it back in Steve’s hand. He ducked under Steve’s free arm, wrapping his own around Steve’s waist.

And then they took a short walk, not speaking to each other, just soaking it all in—the scenery, the circumstances, the weight of Steve’s body against Tony’s own.

* * *

Steve had nightmares. Tony had hypothesized that Steve had had them in the past, but they had always had separate rooms at the Compound, and nobody had talked about their demons over breakfast. In the little cottage, Tony heard them.

It would have been difficult for Tony to block out the screams, but it was the heavy thump of an object hitting the ground that drew him to the scene of the attack. Steve was on the floor, hardwood—easy to clean, terrible to land on—and struggling to pull himself upright. One wrong squeeze of the hand and he could break Tony’s wrist. Unable to intervene, Tony kept his distance, watching for a moment before fetching the Vision.

Steve accepted the Vision’s help, at least. He would not let Tony tie his shoes, seemed reluctant to let Sam cook for him—like he would rather burn himself on the stove or set the whole cabin ablaze than impose—but he let the Vision help him off the ground and back onto the bed. 

And then Tony could waltz in like he had not already been there and pretend not to notice the way Steve gripped the Vision’s wrist with bruising force, unaware of his own strength in those desperate moments.

And the Vision, delicate enough to balance butterflies, would just say, “It’s all right, sir,” like he had been programmed for it. 

_Comfort robots_ , Tony thought, leaning against the doorframe. It had been a concept before autonomous robots had even gotten their legs beneath them. Support for the loneliest, the most vulnerable members of society, in a form that did not have human hang-ups, that did not come with the same toils as pet ownership. _This is the future_ , Tony had thought, backing out of the room.

Steve could come to him if he wanted to. J.A.R.V.I.S., bless his truly broken heart, could handle the rest.

* * *

They took walks together. Then Tony would say, “I was thinking about the Accords,” and they would find a place to sit—in the grass, where it would be nearly impossible for Steve to stand again even _with_ the cane and Tony’s help—and Tony would ramble for one to three hours about his thoughts about them, preferably over turkey sandwiches.

If Steve listened to half of it, it was more than anyone else. Even Rhodey only had so much patience. Steve just picked at the grass, then smoothed it apologetically, occasionally remarking, “Aisee,” or “ _’ou_.” The half-formed responses were oddly comforting to Tony. When Tony finally asked him, “Why didn’t you sign?” Steve was quiet for a long time.

“Aisee ‘ou,” Steve said at last. He toed off his shoes, rested his socked feet on the grass, and repeated, “Aisee ‘ou.”

Tony had a million questions. But as they sat together, the questions seemed to dissolve. _You can see me. Maybe you don’t understand what I’m talking about, but you can see me_. That was good enough.

Then Steve asked, “Wha’—at. Wasss. Th’—th’qu’chen?”

And Tony repeated it. “Why didn’t you sign?”

Steve hummed, then picked more grass, smoothed it down. “Didn’ wan’to.”

Tony nodded. He leaned back on his own hands, then flopped down in the cold grass, folding his arms behind his head. “Yeah,” he agreed. _Me neither_ , he did not say. Contracts were ugly. Thousand-page contracts were uglier. But he was a peacekeeper. And the Accords were about _peace_.

Steve flopped down next to him. The bruises on his neck were nearly gone. He breathed steadily, shutting his eyes. Tony looked back at the sky, stunningly blue.

“We go home on Monday,” he announced. “Been two weeks,” he added. Steve didn’t react. “You catch that?” No response. Panic surged through Tony and he lurched up, reached for, shook Steve’s chest a little, even though confused blue eyes blinked at him, catching his hands, shaking, _alive_. “Don’t do that,” he breathed.

Steve blinked at him, holding both his wrists, owlish, unsure. “It’s fine,” Tony said, tugging his hands, and after a whiplash moment of terror, getting them back as Steve let go. “Everything’s fine.”

Getting Steve up was always a pain in the neck, but Tony thought fiercely, _I will carry you if I have to_ , as he strung Steve’s arm around his shoulders and hauled him up. Steadying him on his feet, he crouched and quickly retrieved the cane, putting a hand on Steve’s hip for balance. “Y’all right, big guy?” he asked, stuffing the cane into his hand.

Steve nodded once stiffly, like he wasn’t but didn’t want to say anything about it. “What is it?” Tony pressed.

It was very hard for Steve to lift his arms while standing without pitching over, but he lifted the hand not holding the cane and pressed it to the side of his head meaningfully, a pained expression on his face. “Headache?” Steve dropped his hand, let Tony sling it around his own shoulders. “Yeah. I get those, too. Know a lifesaver? _Cannabis_.”

Steve gave him a truly disapproving look, brow low, but Tony burst out laughing, unable to help himself. “Can’t be in pain when you’re stoned,” he said cheerfully.

“Dohne,” Steve muttered.

“What? Foolproof solutions. I’m an _innovator_.”

“Dohne,” Steve warned.

“Don’t say nobody offered,” he said, shuffling them along.

It rained on them, but Tony said, “Don’t care if you’re wet if you’re stoned,” and Steve sighed deeply, making him grin.

* * *

Tony had thought life in a cabin in the woods— listening to Sam tell stories and start laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, dealing with the blood-curdling screams in the middle of the night from the second bedroom, taking long walks that sometimes ended in the rain—was a challenge. Being away from his trinkets and toys and to-do lists—extensive, unending, unfilled, all locked up in his head—wore on him. He’d yearned for modern society the moment he’d stepped across the threshold and listened to the quiet, woodsy, unsettling.

Modern society, it turned out, was a never-ending carousel of media attention, of overseers with personal agendas and no time to wait, and more variety than he knew what to do with. Suddenly his options weren’t _take a walk, read a book, or nap_ —they were attending to S.I. business, Army business, or U.S. government business, which occasionally, almost miraculously, intersected. Avengers business was the only category he had full control over, but the Accords ensured that there wasn’t much refuge to be found there, either, that there was _tension_ there, too. 

People were _demanding_ his return. Pepper was apoplectic. Even Happy seemed less happy than usual, which was really saying something.

Tony refused to out his real reason for being away. There was a certain desperate irony to masking _Steve_ as an older man, hunched over a cane and requiring Sam’s assistance while cameras flashed in Tony’s face. _You people really are blind_ , he didn’t tell them, resisting the urge to fling a hand back and indicate the real person they wanted to know more about. Tony Stark had already signed his soul over; what about Steve Rogers?

“I really hate it here,” Tony said, presenting a cold turkey sandwich he’d prepared himself as a peace offering and sitting on a too-nice couch next to Steve, eating his own in mutual frustration. Steve had taken the digital mask off as soon as possible, but he clearly understood and disliked the circus of it all.

“Dell’em,” Steve said suddenly. He swallowed hard, coughed briefly, and grimaced. “Hafda—haf—da,” he enunciated, “dell ‘em.”

 _Have to tell ‘em._ Tony hedged, “Can’t take it back once you do.”

Steve said nothing. Tony sighed, finishing off his sandwich. “Look,” he said.

“No,” Steve croaked, cutting him off. He took another bite of his sandwich. Made it last—he’d choke if he swallowed too quickly. “Haf-to.”

Tony said, “You sure?”

Steve nodded. Then grimaced. It was more pronounced than the little flinches and twitches Tony ever caught before; before Tony could ask, he raised a hand, cupped the side of his own face, and left it at that. Headache. “How about tomorrow?” he suggested. He had a meeting at six that Pepper would kill him for missing.

Steve shook his head slowly. “No,” he insisted.

Tony nodded. It felt like atonement, in some weird way, to say, “I’ll set it up.”

He missed his meeting. It was only a hundred million dollar merger on the line. Steve’s _shield_ was worth more.

* * *

The silence was cathedral.

Steve didn’t wear his suit—too much trouble, too . . . _much_ —but even limping forward, cane-less—flat ground, he could manage; sloping hills, not so much—he was instantly recognizable. Those blue eyes and sand-blond hair couldn’t be lost in a crowd. There was a reason, Tony thought, already standing near the podium, a show of support, backup if needed, that Steve always hid his hair and eyes on the run. He didn’t need the shield or the uniform to draw eyes.

He stepped up to the podium. The room was so damn _quiet_. Only a few shuttering clicks as cameras captured the moment, in perpetuity. He gripped the podium with both hands to still their shaking. It rattled a little, then worked. He looked out at the small group—really, under a hundred people was generous for a press release—and looked lost for a moment. More camera clicks.

Finally, he said, “Ai-‘m not well.” It was the most coherent sentence he had managed since they’d pulled him from the water— _I am not well_. Tony was so proud of him. The room was still so very _quiet_. Undaunted, Steve added, “Bud-d-d-d.” He swallowed. He was silent for nearly a minute. No one spoke. “I-I sssstand. Wi’ th’ ‘vengers. An-an-dah, Sssstark. Thank ‘ou.” That, surprisingly, came out easily—it only figured, Tony thought, that Polite Rogers, who apologized for crossing paths with Roombas, would retain his impeccable manners. He leaned back from the podium slowly, like he wasn’t steady enough to stand on his own.

Smoothly, Tony stepped up, slinging an arm around his back that could be read as supportive or steadying— _it doesn’t matter, the show is over, they_ know—and simpered into the mic, “And I am _very_ grateful for Captain Rogers’ support. Any questions?”

The entire room, it seemed, put their hands in the air. He swore a couple journalists flung both hands in the air. He plastered a big friendly smile on his face, and, methodically, chose a guy with both hands up near the back.

“Captain Rogers, what actually happened to you?”

Steve nodded a couple times, considering that as the room held its breath, expecting Tony to snip off a lie and proceed. “I w-w-was injuh-juh-urred. D-duri-ing. A. C-c-c-coverd op’r’shun.”

“Could you repeat that?” a woman asked, unasked, from the front.

Tony almost snapped at her, but Steve—bless his heart—smiled, said, “Sh-sh-shure. G-god f-f-f-five ‘ours?” The room chuckled nervously, thankfully picking up on the slurred punchline without his translation: _Got five hours?_ “Sssstark’s a c-c-c-capable man,” Steve added suddenly. “Drus’ him.” He swallowed, then repeated as clearly as he could, “ _Trust him_.”

“I’m very trustworthy,” Tony assured, patting him on the back warmly, like friends, surreptitiously filling in the blank. “And this American _hero_ ,” he emphasized, “has done more for this country than most of us could achieve in ten lifetimes, myself included.” That was a bold lie—Tony Stark had, in fact, saved New York City from certain nuclear devastation—but it was a necessary one, because Tony Stark had also created a _murder robot_ , and earned the notorious and well-worn nickname _merchant of death_. Steve Rogers’ greatest crime against humanity was being born too ill to enlist the normal way. “I think that alone deserves a round of applause, don’t you?”

When Tony Stark said _clap_ , people clapped, and it was surprisingly warm, the forty or so journalists easily making up a small crowd. Steve flustered briefly, even said, “No, no,” gently, muffled, but that only made them clap more.

“What’d I tell you?” Tony asked loudly, leaning in to the mic, seemingly speaking over Steve’s modesty as he added, “American heroes. That’s what we’re really here about.” The room quieted, leaning in again, and Tony went on easily, “It’s not about coming back unscathed. You know, the scaredest guy, he comes back without a mark on him. But it’s the heroes that get thrown in the fire, that—” Tony swallowed, suddenly conscious of the space where the arc reactor used to sit in his chest. “That hurt,” he finished, a neat, simple word that encapsulated a lot. “Heroes get hurt. Heroes get back up. We live our lives. Maybe it’s time to reorganize them. My friend and illustrious lover Colonel Rhodes will take it from here,” he said. He stepped back, pulling Steve with him.

Rhodey got up from his chair, approached the podium, and said very clearly into the mic, “I don’t think I need to reiterate that Tony Stark and I have had no relations beyond friendship.”

A warm wave of laughter. That was how you got ‘em, Tony thought, shuffling Steve off, keep ‘em laughing. Tony resisted the urge to shoo him off more speedily. He seemed drained, hurting, in some way, and as soon as they found a side room, he did shoo Steve into a chair and asked seriously, “Y’okay?”

Steve hooked both arms around Tony’s waist, pulling him closer and resting his forehead against Tony’s belly. He let out a long, tired breath. Tony settled a hand on his nape, squeezed it very gently, and sighed, “Yeah. Me too.”

Easier said than done.

* * *

Steve liked colored pencils. He couldn’t draw like he used to, hand shaking like it did, but, strangely enough, he drew more than ever, grabbing a pack, sitting in front of a window, and just determinedly putting colors on the page. The results were Pollockian—fantastic fiascos full of colors, slashing across each other, intertwining into landscapes rather than individuals. 

He couldn’t control his hand movements well, but he _could_ control the colors and the areas of the page he focused on. Tony noticed the difference, the _improvement_ , as scenes of true chaos slowly coalesced into raw emotions, loneliness, joy, peace. Steve even let him watch, something he never used to do. It seemed to bring him its own kind of peace, being able to scribble and scratch and sketch on the page, falling asleep in his chair with a dull pencil in hand.

Tony said, “That’s pretty,” and Steve drew in a shallow breath, blinking twice and coming back into focus, looking down at the picture, a sea of astonishing blue, streaked with yellow. He blinked at it, then looked at Tony, nodded once in agreement, and then ripped the paper three ways. “Why’d you do that?” Tony asked, genuinely curiously.

Steve attempted to organize the pieces back into a complete image. It was very clearly a struggle, but Tony didn’t say a word, just sat on the arm of the chair until he’d managed it. Then Steve said with amusement, “Now ’s’a pu’zle.”

Tony leaned against him, smiling against his hair. Soft and golden as straw. “Uh-huh.” He held out a hand, and when Steve didn’t brush it aside, grasped the red pencil. He was shit at drawing anything that wasn’t lines, lines, lines, lines, so he sketched a tiny stick figure in the sea of blue, set the pencil down, and said, “There. Now it’s _Where’s Waldo?_ ” He tapped the figure explanatorily.

Steve said, “There’s Walll-do.” He grinned. “Pu’zle.”

“Mm-hm.” He blinked when Steve squeezed his hand suddenly. “What’s up?”

“’ou ok-k-kay?”

Sighing dramatically, Tony slumped until he was seated in Steve’s lap, indulging dramatically, “I’m a _disaster_.” Steve curved both arms around him. Tony waited to be shoved off, but he just pushed the mobile desk aside with his foot. “Absolutely _wretched_ ,” he repeated. “I have been sober for _four days_.”

“Wow,” Steve said, with far too much drawl, which made Tony grumble:

“More like _ow_. Do you even _know_ how pissed Ross is?”

Steve squeezed him gently. “R-Ross?”

“I will pay someone, to pretend to be me, just to sit in meetings, with him,” Tony said, enunciating the terms of his contract clearly. Shutting his eyes, he sighed, “Actually, I want three clones, one for S.I., one for Ross, one for the paps. I just wanna be on a beach. You wanna go to the beach?”

Steve blinked at him slowly, eyes drooping a little. “No,” he said. “R-Ross?” he pressed.

Tony shrugged a little. “The killjoy who keeps filling up my inbox?” he tried. He sat up and nearly vaulted out of Steve’s lap, adding, “Hang on,” and returning with his phone.

“ _Stark, it’s General Ross. Return my call in the next five minutes or I will have you escorted to my office. Out_.”

Tony said lightly, “See? Absolute killjoy.”

Steve rubbed his forehead, looking out of his depth. “R-R-Roh—” he started, but didn’t get past it, frustration abruptly clouding his features.

“Take it easy, fella,” Tony counseled, deleting the message—issued two hours ago; Happy must have been keeping them really busy at the door, Tony thought affectionately—and saying, “Need anything?”

Steve ignored him, planting his head in both hands. Tony said, “Cool. Then I will be—”

Steve grasped his hand, cold, clammy, shaking. Tony paused. “Or not.” Tugging on his hand, Tony said, “I can, uh—coffee? Can’t make it worse, can it?” Steve didn’t respond. “What’s up?” he asked, forcing himself to be patient as whole minutes passed without any kind of response from Steve. “Hm?” he finally pressed. “Don’t worry about Ross,” he said suddenly. “I’m taking care of it. Him. I’m taking care of it and him.”

“I,” Steve croaked, and then, defeated, “go.”

“Go?” Tony repeated. “Me or—” Steve gave him a gentle but meaningful push in the right direction. “Rodger dodger. Don’t get into trouble.”

It felt wrong to leave him, but he couldn’t stay, not when Steve didn’t want him there.

He pretended very hard not to hear him sniffling. He wasn’t sure it worked, but he pretended.

* * *

The whole world looking for one man, it wasn’t hard to find him.

Steve was listless again, not interested in food or short walks outside the compound, despite the cherry blossoms in bloom and the many sights of D.C. available to him. He’d holed up, and when Tony presented the information, he feared a bigger reaction than . . . absolutely nothing.

“Bucky. Your friend? That guy? We found him. Brought him in. See if he knows anything that happened to you, huh? Maybe, eyewitness—”

He rambled for some time, only cutting himself off when, with visible effort, Steve struggled shakily to his feet, grabbed his cane, and limped off. “Good talk,” Tony called after him, more disturbed than he wanted to admit. The Bucky and Rogers show was borderline universal knowledge—Steve Rogers and James Barnes had been inseparable since childhood. Bucky Barnes had also died in 1944. That Hydra had turned him into their own super-soldier was a tragedy, but bringing him in—bringing him _home_ —was an answer to a long-lost prayer.

Or so Tony had thought.

He tried to ignore Steve, but he was itching for a reaction, and no small amount worried, restless—Sam had taken time off, and while there were always two to three people around, he didn’t know if he trusted Wanda with Steve, or Clint, God, no, Clint—and found himself knocking on Steve’s door, pushing it in a little when he didn’t respond, just listening. Steve’s breathing was still quiet, even. It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and he was curled up under his blankets, the room blacked out.

Tony waited until he was sure Steve was breathing before shutting the door again.

Maybe he was processing, he hoped.

* * *

Steve wasn’t processing.

He was imploding. Slowly, but surely—any hints of charm, of gung-ho fight, vanished. It was wretched to check on him, terrified he would find a body. He didn’t dare tug any harder on Sam, who had already moved mountains for Steve and needed his own time off, so he asked anyone who would listen to check in. Maybe it was _him_ , he thought, paranoid—maybe Steve just really didn’t want to talk to Tony which, fine, Tony could accept that.

There were days when _Tony_ didn’t want to talk to Tony.

Natasha was both the best option and the one he could least bring himself to lean into. She was a rockstar, checking in on Steve and saving all of their asses as government officials left and right demanded what the media alone had mulled over more tastefully. 

The irony, Tony muttered silently, listening to another politico ramble about how essential it was for Steve Rogers to sign the Accords. Tony couldn’t muster the energy to snap back that Steve Rogers couldn’t even sign his own _name_ , let alone a document he had never read, or didn’t remember, if he did, but he did refuse to submit his approval.

Tony wanted unity. Peace. Everyone on the same side, a strong front against the inevitable wave of conquering foes. But if he turned on Steve, if he forced his hand, manipulated him into signing, he would never forgive himself.

 _It would be easy_ , the worst among them whispered.

And that was exactly why Tony couldn’t do it. Either Steve signed of his own _accord_ , or he didn’t. Tony Stark would not be the one to literally force his hand.

 _It’s for the greater good_ , he could hear in their pleas.

 _You sound like Hydra_ , he didn’t respond, because he was smart enough to know that bad things could happen if he lashed out, that his fragile image as a peacekeeper was one hard knock from dissolving. There were plenty who weren’t happy that he’d _gotten away with_ Ultron, like he wasn’t haunted by the death toll, the disenfranchised. There were even a few, in the intimate circles involved with the Accords, who knew he’d played a _role_ in Project Insight.

Tony Stark was one wrong step away from being the one on trial. He was almost grateful for the Winter Soldier—his crimes were so obvious, heinous, and numerous, that it was easy to put him on a pedestal and cry out for justice.

It was kind of him, Tony thought, as Barnes stood on television, looking menacing and hell and Hydra to the core, to take the political fall. Tony was just trying to do the right thing. Barnes had murdered dozens in cold blood.

Forced to choose a villain, it was easy to weigh in on unchecked Hydra versus law-and-order Avengers. That was why they needed the Accords. To be the diametric opposition to the forces of evil, and not merely a good kind of unchecked power. That was why, Tony insisted, as he stepped into Steve Rogers’ room and said aloud, “Steve?”

Steve didn’t respond, but Tony had a feeling he wasn’t asleep. An _inkling_ , maybe a hitched breath or the tiniest shuffle of movement.

“Rise and shine,” Tony insisted, flicking on the light to the dimmest setting. Steve still flinched under the blankets, huddling until even the top of his head disappeared. “No, hey, c’mon—I’m not your Mom, or your—”

Red-eyed, despairing, Steve emerged, looking right at him. “Uh,” Tony tried, out of words, all at once, for the raw pain in that look. “Hey, champ. -ion. How’re you doing?”

Steve blinked once, then cocked his head, analyzing him.

“So,” Tony said slowly. “You should. Uh.” He watched Steve shuffle out of bed, saying, “Good. That’s good.”

He struggled on his feet, unsteady. Tony swept underneath his arm automatically. He was musty, like he hadn’t showered in a few days. “C’mon, big guy,” he cajoled. “Shower time. Then I’ll order an entire cheesecake and we’ll see who can eat it faster.”

He had no intention to stay any longer than dumping Steve in the attached bathroom, but Steve couldn’t even pull the shirt over his head, getting lost in the arms, and Tony took pity on him. “Tearaway shirts,” he said. “We need to bring those back.” He shooed Steve to his feet with an arm around his shoulders, wheezing, “They don’t call you a big guy for nothing, huh?”

Steve was leaner, though, almost _bony_ around the shoulders. Tony thought, _Can’t lose you again, tough guy_. He worked Steve’s pants off, made a crack about how at least he didn’t have an irrational fondness for painted-on clothing, and turned the shower on, adjusting the temperature. “Arrivederci,” he bid, saluting, before warning, “Take those off _before_ you get in. Towel’s on the rack.”

It was probably the coward’s way out, Tony reflected, stripping his bed for him—Steve was fastidious about clean, and the mussed-up sheets would smell better after a wash—and ordering his favorite heavenly cheesecake from Mah-ze-Dahr. He listened intently for sounds of struggle, a thump, a yelp, but the only noise was the shower, and Tony flopped back on Steve’s unmade bed and played Pong on his phone, waiting for him.

Steve took five-minute showers—it was one of those statistics J.A.R.V.I.S. collected and Tony never really used, except when fifteen minutes elapsed and there was still no sound of the water shutting off. By the twenty-minute mark, he tapped at the door, inquiring within: “Buddy? What’s going on?”

The door was still unlocked, so he peered it open, half-expecting to see Steve behind the glass, listlessly going through the motions. For all he knew, it took Steve three hours to shower.

Steve wasn’t in the shower; he was sitting on the closed toilet, scratching at his scruffy chin absentmindedly, like he was waiting for someone to come in. Tony sighed, pushed the door open—Steve looked over after a moment, then lit up in a way that made Tony’s heart hurt. The steam from the shower kept the room pleasantly warm, but Steve was still shivering a little when Tony put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m an idiot.”

“No,” Steve mumbled, with such earnestness it hurt, looking up at him, grasping his wrist in both shaky hands, and insisting, “No. No.” He smiled a little, like that would cement the fact, then added, “S’nice.”

Sighing, ruffling unwashed hair with careless affection, Tony said, “You’ll feel . . . fresher.” _Better_ seemed like such a big word.

Steve just looked at him, anxiously holding his hand. “Flo’ers?” he mumbled, trying to make sense of the word.

“No,” Tony said. “No flowers. I mean, if you _want_ —” Sighing, he rested his hand firmly on Steve’s nape, said, “I really don’t like sponge baths,” and released him. “So, this is just a more efficient sponge bath. Got it?”

Steve blinked at him. “Doh-ne?”

“Mm-hm.” Tony shucked off his shirt. “One and only.”

“ _Toe_ -ne,” Steve said, and he looked proud of himself.

Tony felt very choked up, which was an odd feeling as he shimmied his own pants down his legs. “Yeah,” he said.

“To-ne,” Steve repeated, supremely satisfied. “Aisee ‘ou.”

“I see you,” he repeated, tugging him up. “I feel like—” he began, then left the reference behind, even as Steve looked at him hopefully, waiting. “ _Avatar_ , you know the blue people movie? That’s what they say. _I see you_. Just thought of that.”

At least it gave him something to talk about, he mused, washing Steve’s hair, letting him anchor himself with both unsteady hands on Tony’s hips. “It’s kind of weird, I mean, I don’t see how you get a hair-boner— _mohawk_?” he said suddenly, appalled. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the remark or the incredulous tone that did it, but Steve laughed, and it was wonderful.

“God, I hate that,” he bemoaned, while Steve chuckled. “No, that’s the worst thing, I’m going to invent a—” He stuttered, then plowed a head, “Mind wipe, just to erase that concept from human history.”

“To-ne,” Steve repeated, affectionate and exasperated.

“No, it’s not a _waste of talent_ ,” Tony grumbled, filling in the conversation easily. “It’s a _brilliant innovation_.”

He had a solid two million innovations awaiting him, in files and in the conversations he’d cultivated over the years, but it was kind of nice to slow down, spend a while doing something that was purely for someone else’s benefit.

Tony Stark: _selfless_ bastard. 

Kind of had a nice ring to it.

* * *

A truly inadvisable quantity of cheesecake made for the perfect dessert.

Nearly catatonic, Tony was lying on the floor, halfway through a recitation of the entire _Star Wars: Empire Strikes Back_ by memory when his phone rang. “Fucking—” he mumbled, and lo, it was Ross. “I’m off-duty,” he greeted.

“ _I don’t care_ ,” Ross replied, predictably pissed. “ _Get in or I’m sending the National Guard_.”

“I’m actually shaking,” Tony deadpanned, and hung up. “Can you believe him? Anyway, then Luke Skywalker says, _You want the impossible_ , and walks away, and after he finds a good spot to chill out for a hot second, Yoda lifts his little green arm, right—I mean, proportionately, it’s not little, he’s just a small green alien, so it’s—so he lifts his proportionately green arm and the water starts bubbling as the ship begins to _rise_. . . .”

Steve watched him, enraptured, as Tony mimed the fifth _Star Wars_ film, and Tony thought, _Is this love?_ and then shuddered in meaningful concern because that was the _last_ thing he needed on his plate.

* * *

Tony warned, for the umpteenth time, “The Bucky you lost—”

Steve patted him on the shoulder, both consoling and dismissing.

The doors opened. There sat James Barnes, former World War II Sergeant, now securely held in their custody.

“Wasn’t expectin’ company.” He sounded friendly, at least—approachable, the kind of guy who you could have a beer with.

Steve stood beside Tony, stock-still. “Can’t say hi to an old friend?” Barnes asked.

Steve stepped forward, limping a little. The ground was flat and smooth, but he didn’t seem to know how to walk, anymore, like he was learning it all over every time. Still, he didn’t hesitate to approach once he’d started, stopping once he was near enough to reach out and touch the glass. He didn’t. Tony sidled closer, about halfway between them and the door.

“Hey, punk,” Barnes said, his voice oddly deadpan. “Where’s the red-white-and-blue?”

Steve stared at him, one hand reaching out, resting on the glass. “ _Please don’t touch that_ ,” a voice said over the intercom. Steve didn’t listen. “ _Please remove your hand from the glass_ ,” the same voice said. “ _Remove your hand or_ —”

Tony looked right at the security camera and demanded, “What, you think we’re gonna do a prison break? Lighten up.” Then he realized this was _Bucky Barnes_ , and Steve was _Captain America_ , and there was a more-than-zero chance that Steve could literally bash the glass open.

 _They have to have accounted for that_ , Tony thought, but it was well-known that every theoretical limit of the serum had been exceeded in the field—Steve was a phenomenon, and whether it was his incredible will and resistance to failure or simply a benefit of the serum, he _was_ stronger than they thought. And that made him dangerous.

“ _Remove your hand or you will be escorted out_ ,” the intercom said firmly.

Barnes drawled, “Better listen.”

Steve just stared at him, lost, yearning. “You always were a dumb punk,” Barnes said. His gaze flicked over Steve’s shoulder, locking on Tony. It was a killer’s gaze—flat, cold, _get-the-job-done_. “What happened to him?”

Tony frowned. “I don’t—”

“Buh—kuh.” Steve swallowed. Tried again. “Buh—kuh.” He couldn’t seem to clip the words together, frustration radiating from him.

“Say it,” Barnes said bitterly. “Go on.”

“ _Buh-kee_ ,” Steve managed, with what seemed like real effort. “Pl-ease.”

“God, that’s painful. What’d they do t’ you?”

Steve put both hands on the glass. A red light flashed in the ceiling. No more verbal warnings—the cavalry was coming. “Huh?” Barnes said, almost taunted, like he could goad Tony into spilling the truth.

Steve pawed at the glass helplessly. He wouldn’t break it, Tony knew. “You break my guy?” Barnes asked, his voice so low, so dark, the voice of a man who would kill on sight. Tony was suddenly very grateful for the glass, even as Steve sobbed once.

Tony wanted to be anywhere but in that room as Barnes said, “Hey, shh, I just wanna know—” And then, slowly: “When did this—happen?”

A door slid open, somewhere farther down the hall. Security.

“Why?” Tony asked, circling the question.

“Dammit, Stark!” Barnes barked. “Just—when?”

“Three weeks,” Tony snipped. “We fished him out of the river. After he went after _you_.”

There was a weighted pause, only interrupted by the futile scrambling of open palms against unyielding glass. “Gaaahd,” Barnes sighed.

“Back up, Rogers,” a voice barked behind Tony, startling him. “You, too, Stark.”

“Hang on,” Tony insisted.

“ _Now_ ,” said the guard, jabbing a neutral baton into his back warningly. “Final warning.”

“I did this,” Barnes said, dull, fascinated, as Steve located a hinge, totally on accident, it seemed, but dug his fingers into it. “It won’t come loose, pal. Better step down.”

“ _Back up!_ ” barked the guard.

“I broke him,” Barnes said, and then began to laugh, a soft, almost pitiful thing, like he had discovered that his dog had survived the wreck, only to die in the cold, rainy night, instead. “I broke Steve Rogers.”

“Buh-kee!” Steve insisted.

Three guards advanced, batons ready. Tony snapped, “You touch him, I’ll kill you.”

The guard at his back warned, “That’s enough outta you, Stark.”

“ _This is going really well_ ,” said a feminine voice, mercifully familiar. “ _I really can’t wait to pass this along to President Ellis. I’m sure he’ll approve the way we handle our Avengers_.”

Tony wracked his brains to place the voice, but it was impossible with Steve scrabbling at the glass. There were no tears, only desperate, gasping breaths. Barnes was looking determinedly at the ceiling, unable to bear the sight in front of him. Tony stepped forward—the guard behind him did not follow.

He grasped Steve’s shirt, pulling him, and at first, Steve was limp, clinging to the known, before letting go, and collapsing against Tony instead. He was too damn heavy, nearly crushing Tony’s back as they leaned towards the floor, but Tony planted his feet, drew in a hard breath, and stood against the onslaught of his trembling anguish. “I gotcha,” he grunted. “I gotcha. Thanks for the assist, uh—”

“ _Agent Sharon Carter_ ,” Agent Sharon Carter reminded dryly.

“Right. I did know that.” The guards dispersed, leaving them alone.

“ _You’ll be happy to know Everett has been relieved from duty_ ,” she said, _Everett_ , like it meant something to Tony. “ _Sorry to cause such a scene_.”

Tony didn’t respond, and the flashing red light finally went away. Barnes didn’t speak. Steve just sobbed.

“Shh,” Tony said. “Please. Please, Steve.”

Shaking, barely holding up his own weight, Steve gripped two handfuls of Tony’s shirt, torn to pieces inside and holding himself together with his grip alone. There was no skin underneath, or it would have hurt terribly, and Tony knew it was intentional. _You don’t wanna hurt anyone._

 _He hurt you_.

“What did you do?” Tony asked, his voice low, almost rasping.

Barnes didn’t respond.

“What,” Tony said, voice cracking, “did you _do_?”

The pause was long. Too long. Tony’s knees ached; his back hurt from holding Steve up. He brought them over to a wall and finally allowed himself to sink down, and Steve fell with him, knees striking the floor with a painful _crack_.

“I strangled him.”

Tony looked over, but Barnes’ gaze was hard to meet, hard as it was, offering no absolution, no forgiveness, no . . . _anything_. “He put us in the water,” Barnes said, clean and numb, “and I put my hands around his neck, and I squeezed until he stopped moving. And then. . . .” He paused, genuinely thoughtful, while Tony tried desperately to evict the mental image from his mind, of Steve and the Winter Soldier, maybe thirty feet below the murky water, struggling against each other while Barnes squeezed his neck so hard he could not even _drown_. 

“Then I tied him down,” Barnes said, his voice softer, a fainter memory. “No—I put him in the plane, so he wouldn’t float away. And I swam down the river and cut loose.” He blinked, once. “I guess I thought it would look like an accident.” He smiled painfully. “Did it look like an accident?”

Tony wanted to shoot him, point-blank. Put a bullet in his lungs and watch _him_ drown, except, even then, it would not capture the raw grief of needing, _begging_ Steve to be alive, only to watch him struggle to live again.

Steve Rogers had always been well-adjusted, no matter how tumultuous the sea. But it was Bucky Barnes who broke him, and Tony hated him to the soul.

“I’ll kill you,” he vowed, not caring that he was on camera, that they would surely mark that down and refuse to let him speak to Barnes face-to-face again. “I swear I’ll—”

“Don’t bother,” Barnes said wearily. “You can’t hurt me more than this.”

He said it like he meant it. He had no right to mean it. Steve was limp and silent against him, and when Tony tried to push him up, he just whispered:

“’ _uh-kee_.”

“Right here,” Barnes said, as Tony pushed and shoved and hauled Steve to his feet, barely noticing Sam, out of breath but _there_ , taking more of Steve’s weight than Tony expected him to. “Right here,” Barnes said again, like it mattered, and it didn’t, because he was behind a glass wall, and he had killed Steve Rogers.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sam said, the best idea Tony had heard all day.

* * *

He told Ross, “Steve Rogers will never sign. And you won’t ask him to.”

“And why is that?” Ross pressed, sitting at his desk patiently, a man at odds with angry voicemails and trigger fingers.

“Because,” Tony said, “the Avengers, we’re done. We’re not gonna fight. We did what we came to do. Now it’s your response teams that can die for the rest of humanity.” He chucked his security card on the table for good measure. And then, to impress the point, he added the duplicate he’d made, in case he got carried away and threatened to resign. “I resign.”

Ross said slowly, “I had a feeling this was coming,” as he swept a hand out, collected the cards, and shooed them into a desk drawer. “You are dismissed, Stark. Please be aware of the consequences, should you choose to proceed without our accommodation.”

“Understood.”

_No more Avengers._

It was gutting to think about, gutting in a way that made him want to cry, that made him want to huddle in Steve’s arms and pretend they weren’t trembling slightly.

He couldn’t fight anymore, not like this, not like—

Maybe, _maybe_ , he thought, shaking as he turned the door handle and stepped inside the Avengers’ compound, in time, things would get better. But with his entire world crushing him down, all he could do was drop the cards.

Steve had already let go of the shield. He stared listlessly out the big windows.

Tony cuffed his shoulder with his own. “I’m gonna ask him.”

“Who?” Steve said, the word shaped almost perfectly in his mouth.

“T’Challa,” Tony replied.

* * *

_Three months later_.

Life in Wakanda was . . . peaceful.

That was really the only word for it. The sun rose and fell, and Tony Stark experienced what it was like to not fear for his life from nosy assassins, paparazzi, or crazy-ex-lovers-turned-stalkers. He did not worry about bringing his suit everywhere or having access to it, and it wasn’t a bold choice if he left even the wristlets in their little home.

Pepper hadn’t wanted to come with him to Wakanda, and that was fine, because he had known, in some quiet way, that he and Pepper worked better when they were far apart, and he could not fuck things up so badly.

Steve liked it, too. He grew out his beard, shaking his head when Tony gestured if he wanted a shave. They communicated a lot through hand waves and gestures—Romanoff accused them of gazing into each other’s eyes too much, but their easy rapport was what made living together so . . . easy.

Steve could actually handle himself quite well, when the equations were simplified. All his clothes were button- and zip-free, and there weren’t small, difficult objects that fell out of his hands, narrow streets that confounded his unsteady gait and any other passerby. He was fascinated by the art that Tony insisted on seeing once every couple weeks, needing to refresh what a society that wasn’t tearing into its own jugular could _make_.

He missed Sam’s grilled cheeses and the rolling mountains and November-like cold of Wyoming, but he had no lost love for D.C. and its circus show, did not once cast out a line to reconnect with it while ensconced in a new world. King T’Challa was happy to have them, both as a leader and friend. They were easy house-guests, living outside the city, where Steve’s screams only awoke Tony.

Tony imagined the words he could not say to beg Barnes for his life and saw red, cradled Steve to his chest and wished with all his heart that he could go back to that terrible moment and kill Barnes so he couldn’t kill _Tony’s_ guy, and he knew, in a small, forgiving part of himself, that Barnes would let him.

 _Barnes_ would; the Winter Soldier might not.

Steve drew, inspired by the new landscape. He seemed both relaxed and sad, happy and discontent, like he knew that he was not doing what he had been made to do, but Tony wanted to tell him, _We’re not machines; we adapt, we improvise, we overcome_ , before realizing the latter half was inspired by Clint Eastwood. Then he realized Steve had no idea who Clint Eastwood was and said it anyway, and was rewarded with a sincere smile.

It was also, he found out, surfing the richest, most secure Wi-Fi on the planet, the unofficial slogan of the Marines. Given how much time Steve had spent in the deep-blue, he thought it was pleasantly ironic.

* * *

And then came a day when Tony said, “You wanna go back?” and took another bite of a sweet fruit he would honestly miss, a kind of pineapple that put its Western grown brethren to shame. “Just a thought,” he added, as Steve continued to stare at him, disconcertingly long, the little table between them close enough that Tony could rest his feet on Steve’s comfortably. “I mean, I’m fine here,” he said. “I just feel like, you know—overstayed welcome’s, and all.”

It had been maybe three-and-a-half months since King T’Challa— _you are a king, right?; in time; then I will call you King_ —had let them stay. He’d bid them to spend, _However much time you need_ , in his beloved city, but Wakanda was not open to outsiders, and the fact that their visit hadn’t been cut short at the forty-eight-hour-mark humbled Tony. He had a theory that King T’Challa wanted to offer more than an _I’m sorry_ after Steve awoke a different man. But Tony needed no _I’m sorry_ , and Steve was happy, too, and Tony knew that if they didn’t leave soon, then they would never—

“Yes,” Steve said, relaxed and easy.

“Yes?” Tony echoed, surprised. Steve just nodded. Something inside Tony, tense and unsure, unwound. “Good. Great. I was thinking—”

Steve listened absentmindedly, gaze occasionally straying to the window, eating goat meat—which, to Tony’s surprise, was _delectable_ , and more nutritious than cow meat, beside—and pondering something he would not share. Laying out the details of a potential relocation like a heist, Tony asked, “Anything we should do before we go? Other than say goodbye.”

“Yes,” Steve said again, intentionally.

* * *

The streets of Wakanda were stunning even in full sun, but they were ethereal at night.

“I will miss this,” Tony admitted, as Steve padded along beside him, one hand on his shoulder for balance. He could use a cane, and he even had one, specially made so he didn’t have to crouch at all, but it was easy enough with the two of them, and Tony swore his balance was improving. They’d found a physiologist who had offered hope for some improvement, with patience and the right kind of exercises, and Tony had only gotten misty-eyed back at their little cottage.

 _I don’t need you to get better_ , he’d insisted. _I don’t need more than this_. He liked _this_ , whatever it was, the strangely easy rapport, the simple, loving touches, the checking-in and saying-goodbye and reuniting at the end of a long day, confident that nothing bad would happen to Steve, and there was a whole _world_ out there.

It was a nice way to untangle _them_ from the rest of the world, and experience peace together, and as they walked the city, Tony reiterated, “I’ll miss this.”

Steve just nodded, but he offered, “God ‘ou.”

It took Tony barely a moment to translate. _Got you_. “I got you,” Tony said, slinging his arm around Steve’s waist and asking, “Kind of stuck with me. That okay?”

Steve hummed agreement. They ate in an open shop, surrounded by people laughing and living their lives and confident that their King would secure peace for them, and held onto each other’s hands, like it meant nothing, and everything.

* * *

“Hey, Dad,” Clint greeted, hugging him at the door hard enough to squeeze the stuffing out. “Good to see you.”

“I think you broke a rib,” Tony wheezed back.

“Dad,” Clint added solemnly, hugging Steve decidedly more gently. “Man, you guys missed a lot—”

“Uh-uh,” Tony said firmly. “One night. I want one night on U.S. soil without regretting it.”

Clint grinned. “Sure. We can celebrate tomorrow. Hey, come see this,” he told Steve, nodding over his shoulder, and Steve put a steadying hand on Clint’s shoulder—good man, didn’t even make a remark about it—and they walked over to the shiny new—

“Uh? Is this sick or what?”

“They grow up so fast,” Tony sighed.

“But it’s _sick_ , right?” Clint said, cocking a _marshmallow gun_ and saying, “This is life-changing.”

Steve lost interest in the marshmallow gun and wandered away, looking around. Tony sighed, “I am _exhausted_ ,” and wasn’t even kidding, even though his internal clock was still six hours ahead of the real time in Washington, D.C.

“Nah, man, we gotta take you to dinner, catch up,” Clint said. “Besides, Vision learned how to count to ten.”

“I already knew how to count to ten before you left,” the Vision said solemnly. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Thanks, J.,” Tony said, responding to the voice more than the man as he bumped shoulders gently with Steve. When Steve looked at him, he offered with a nod, _Come with me?_ and Steve slung an arm around his shoulders.

It was slower-going, that way, more of Steve’s weight inadvertently pressing on him, but the smell of his own room, still familiar after three months, was unexpectedly soothing.

“God, you _miss_ this,” Tony said, flopping down face-first, leaving Steve to fend for himself. They’d had separate beds in Wakanda, but Steve was a furnace and would throw an arm around Tony whenever he flopped down next to him to share the warmth. Tony encouraged, “C’mere,” and Steve lied down next to him. “That’s my guy,” Tony sighed, shuffling closer to bury his face in Steve’s shirt—still smelling faintly of Wakanda; he’d miss that, too.

He blinked, and then opened his eyes and it was the middle of the night, Steve snoring softly beside him. Groaning, he rolled over, said, “Ohhh, we fucked up, we fucked up jetlag so hard,” and yawning so hard his jaw cracked. “I’m better than this. Wake up,” he added, nudging Steve, who robustly ignored him, snoozing away. Sighing, Tony slunk out of bed, resolved to check in soon, and made his way to the main hangout area.

Predictably, Natasha Romanoff was there. “Hey stranger,” he greeted.

“You’re back,” she replied, sounding unimpressed. “How was your trip?”

“Oh, you know.” Flopping on the couch right next to her, Tony added, “Balmy,” and yelped as she tipped him onto the floor. “ _Ow_. Fuck. I’m too old for this. Barton has a _marshmallow gun_ now?”

“Life is hard,” she deadpanned. “Get used to it.”

“Thanks.” Heaving himself back up onto the couch, well away from her, he added, “How you been? How’s the family?”

“Ever-growing,” Natasha said, a hint of dryness creeping into her voice as she added, “Yours?”

“Shrinking, actually. I think Rhodey disowned me.”

“Tragic.”

“Truly.” Nudging her calf with his foot, he said seriously, “I did miss you.”

“I know.”

“Reciprocity is the key to all—”

“How is he?” Natasha interrupted.

Tony shrugged. “Terrific. I guess. Ask him.” When Natasha continued to watch him, analyzing something about Steve from Tony’s posture, no doubt, Tony sighed and said, “He’s _fine_.”

“Did you see the news?”

“No, I purposefully avoided the news—as I should.”

“Barnes is free. On probation.”

Tony’s ears were ringing. “He—killed—Captain America.”

“Technically, Captain America’s still alive.”

“Because we _brought him back_ ,” Tony huffed. “What part of _he killed_ didn’t make it through to—you know what? I’m getting Ross on the—”

“Ross was dismissed.” Tony’s jaw dropped.

“Well, I mean, my _letter campaign_ was spirited, but I didn’t realize it would be so—”

“Everything’s been pretty much in complete turmoil since you and Cap ran off into the sunset,” Natasha went on, her voice even but—yup, there it was, the _whiff_ of accusation. “So, forgive me for wondering if it was worth it.”

“It was,” Tony said instantly. _For us_ , a selfish side of him added. “For him. And me. Not important. The last part,” he qualified, twice. “He needed a break. Guy was dying for his country, and—”

“Does he know about Barnes?”

“Know? We just landed, what, two—eight hours ago?” he said, grimacing. “I hate time zones, flying, and naps, almost equally. No, he doesn’t know,” he clarified firmly. “But now I definitely don’t relish telling him.”

“You don’t have to,” Natasha said, because she really was the devil on his shoulder, trying to give him the _easy way out_.

Shaking his head, he said, “No, I do. I have to. Fuck.” He scrubbed a hand over his own face, his neatly trimmed beard. “I just don’t want to.”

“He gonna run for the hills?”

“Stop it. He’s not crazy.” He leveled a withering look at Natasha, who simply look back at him, assessing. “And stop psychoanalyzing me. I’m _jetlagged_.”

“You know, he seems happy, Stark,” Natasha said unexpectedly. “I really don’t wanna ruin that.”

“Can’t handle him with kid gloves,” Tony said at once, firmly. “He’s either part of the team or he’s not. He has a right to know. _I_ know.”

Natasha let that steep. “You really care about him.”

Squinting one eye, Tony said, “What, did I not make that clear with the whole boyband thing?” Grimacing, he added, “One for all and all for one. Or did you forget our pinky promise?”

“Just don’t . . . hurt him,” Natasha said, the heart of the matter, and Tony didn’t have an immediate, snappy retort. “It’s nice to see him smile again, Stark.”

“Well, _Romanoff_ , maybe you should trust that I’m _good_ at it,” he sniffed, standing. “Not even one day back and I seriously miss the middle of manufactured nowhere.”

“It’s nice to run,” Natasha agreed. “It’s the coming home that’s hard. But it doesn’t have to be.”

“Sometimes, it does,” Tony said grimly.

* * *

He wasn’t a monster. He waited until Steve had finished cleaning up his own breakfast, only dropping the plate in the sink, wincing as it slipped out of his hand, but Tony hadn’t bought drop-resistant plates for fun. “So,” Tony said, “Barnes is on probation. He’s out.”

He knew Steve’s reaction would be strong—he still didn’t anticipate Steve’s leg buckling, nearly sending him to the floor as Tony chanted, “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” and nearly flinched as Clint suddenly appeared, helping him get Steve back on his feet. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Heard about that, too?” he asked.

Steve gripped Tony’s arms hard enough to hurt. Tony warned tightly, “Lighten up just a little there, buddy.”

“B-Barne?” Steve repeated. “Barne?”

Tony looked into blue eyes, searching and hopeful, and nodded once. Steve released him, but he was still shaking, insisting, “N-n-n-need,” and swallowing hard when he couldn’t quite form the word.

“Where is he?” Tony quizzed Barton.

“Agent Carter put him up. You’ll never guess where.”

Tony groaned. “I am _still_ jetlagged,” and grunted as Steve leaned more into him. “Okay, hey, c’mon, don’t do this. Up and at ‘em, tiger.”

He dragged them over to the couch, shooing Clint away with a growled, “I got him, _I got him_.”

“This is an optimal time to demonstrate the marshmallow gun,” Clint agreed, lofting it and pointing it at Tony. “You ready?”

Ignoring him completely, Tony asked Steve, “You okay?”

Steve nodded, then covered his face with both hands, hunching forward. “You shoot him, I will fucking cut your dick off,” Tony warned Clint, who shrugged, shouted:

“Vis! I need a favor.”

Tony rubbed Steve’s back, encouraging softly, “Hey, talk to me.” Steve didn’t respond, except to continue tensing up.

The Vision glided into the room and offered, “Can I be of assistance?”

Clint waggled the gun at him. “Yeah, shoot me in the face with this.”

The Vision said, “That sounds dangerous.”

“No, no, it’s a marshmallow gun, see?” Tony heard it dispense a marshmallow somewhere to his left. “Not a real gun.”

“Oh,” the Vision said. “Well. In that case.”

“Steve?” Tony asked, pointedly ignoring them, right up until the marshmallow gun discharged and Clint yelped at the top of his goddamn lungs:

“ _OW!!!_ ”

Steve shifted a hand to look, and Tony said, “Serves you right, bastard,” as Clint, clutching his right eye, whined:

“I’m blind, I’m blind, he _blinded_ me.”

“I do not believe that is possible,” the Vision said. “Are you all right?”

“He’s fine,” Tony grumbled. “Steve?” Steve looked at him, then lowered his hands, drew in a steadying breath, and nodded.

“Aim for my _mouth_ , please,” Clint grunted, lowering his hand. “Gee, _wow_ , here I thought _Tony_ _Stark_ built you.”

“Well,” the Vision said, again in that gentle voice, “he did. But some things are easier to program than others. We all have our shortcomings.”

They all shared a quiet, reflective pause. “That was very Yoda of you, J.,” Tony said.

“Thank you. I think you are also very Yoda,” the Vision said sincerely.

Steve managed, “I—wa-wanna. Ssssee. ‘im.”

Tony replied, “You sure?”

“I _wa-wanna_ sssssssee Buh-keeeee.”

Patting him firmly on the back, camaraderie, assurance, Tony said, “Okay. Then we’ll—”

The marshmallow gun discharged a third time, and Clint caught the marshmallow nimbly in his mouth, preening around it, “Ta-da!”

“I really do hate you on a cellular level,” Tony said without heat.

“Thanks,” Clint said. “I try real hard for that distinction.”

* * *

There was something special about a renowned killer wielding an ax, chopping firewood, and musing conversationally, “I don’t see it, either. S’like they wanna see if I’m gonna bite so they can put me down.” Then he stuck the ax in the wood and encouraged, “Stevie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Steve was standing behind and slightly to the side of Tony, his shoulder pressure into Tony’s. “Seem in awfully good spirits for a mass murderer,” Tony said coolly.

“Yeah, well. Finally got a reason to, you know. Almost smile.” He almost smiled. “What about you, Stark? Heard a lot about you. You never made it on my lists.” There was something strange about the way he said the words.

“Too young or too pretty?” Tony asked automatically.

“Something like,” Barnes diverted, still looking at Steve. “Hey, c’mere. We used to know each other, didn’t we?”

Steve just stared at him. Tony could barely feel him breathing. “Thin ice, Barnes.”

“Ouch. You know, ice, not my friend. Or his.” He took one step closer. Tony gripped the gun hidden on his belt automatically. “Oh, I see. Yeah, that’s fair. They won’t let me have one. Probably too obvious.” He sounded like he had one, anyway. Tony hated the distrust in the air, the feeling that Hydra agents were slowly surrounding them. “C’mon, Steve,” he encouraged. “There’s no more glass. I just wanna—”

Finally, limping a little more pronounced on the uneven grass, Steve did step around Tony. He stepped forward.

“Buddy, pal,” Barnes said, walking up, _enveloping_ Steve in his arms, and Steve just—went limp against them, sagging into him. “Been too long, this time. Been too long.” Steve said nothing. Tony wanted to hide, or shoot Barnes, or maybe shoot Barnes, and then hide, preferably with Steve. That would be optimal. He couldn’t take his hand off the gun, even as Barnes held _his guy_ and said, “I’m sorry. That’s never gonna be enough, but I’m sorry.” He was only speaking to Steve, as he should, but—

“You’re right,” Tony said, drawing Barnes’ gaze to his own. “It’s never gonna be enough. This is permanent.”

“Yeah,” Barnes said. “It is.” His metal arm gleamed under his sleeve, his silver fingers too close for comfort to Steve’s neck, just placement but too damn _close_.

“Let go of him,” Tony rasped.

Barnes held on just one millisecond longer, intentional, Tony was sure, before obliging, unfolding his arms neatly. Steve leaned into him, his own arms coming up to grasp at him. Tony felt like his own heart was splintering. To add insult to injury, Barnes raised his own hands above his head, but Steve didn’t move away.

Then, slowly, he lowered them, enveloping Steve once again.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Steve mumbled, almost below hearing, “S’ouuu-keh.”

“I wish it was,” Barnes said. “I really do.”

* * *

They sat on the floor in the cottage in Wyoming. “This place’ll feel crowded if anyone else comes to live here,” Barnes said, jesting, easy with it. Steve was still clinging to him like a lemur, desperate for seventy years of lost time. Barnes had one arm around him, the other gesticulating absently. “Nice thing is, it’s real quiet. No people around. Just feels . . . good.”

“Yeah.” _It did_ , Tony didn’t say. His back ached. His eyes hurt. He was so damn tired. “So, are you, just—”

“No,” Barnes said bluntly, his hold never loosening on Steve even as his shoulders slumped a little. “No, no, I’m still—I’m as fucked up as they come, Stark.”

Hearing it from the horse’s mouth helped. “And yet they . . . let you go. For war crimes.”

“Well, the statute of limitations,” Barnes shrugged, but then, more seriously, added: “Honestly, between you and me? I think I should be behind bars. But they—figured that’d just fuck me up even more, you know. Rotting in a prison cell. Somehow—” He shifted, stretching his legs out, leaning back against the couch, and Tony resisted the urge to scream with frustration as Steve just slumped into him, clinging. “Somehow, they saw fit, once I swore off Hydra, to let me go. Took about three months, mind you, rehabilitation. No bad days for at least thirty days. This is part of my . . . ‘reintroduction.’ They don’t want me near a major population center,” he drawled, like that was a normal concern.

Steve blinked slowly, not really paying attention to the conversation, but still clinging to James Buchanan Barnes, and Tony wanted to rip the floor up, board by board. _We never should’ve left Wakanda_ , he thought bitterly, anguish pooling in his eyes, threatening to spill.

“You know, we been through hell together,” Barnes said suddenly, addressing the elephant in the room, “been through a lot. Sometimes I think God made up a few new ones, just so we could go through ‘em, prove we really meant it. Once the . . . the . . . the _programming_ ,” he seemed to struggle with the word, and Steve squeezed him, and Tony wanted to run out, into the mountains, and never be seen again, “once it, you know, starts to—to fade, a little, the old memories, they come in. Takes a week or so, before you even hear yourself think. Two more weeks, and you . . . well, you start to think, _What the hell am I doin’?_ I don’t know if, if their conditionin’, you know, it doesn’t work so well once you’ve had it so much, some kinda _immunity_ , but—anyway. I still . . . I still _remember_ it all, but it’s a dream.”

He let silence prickle between them, as Tony refused to say a word and Steve just continued to breathe deeply against him, content, in another time, another world. “You keep fondlin’ that gun,” Barnes said, never one to miss a hint, it seemed, “and I keep thinkin’, you shoot me, what’s it do to him? Me, I don’t—I’ve lived too many lives, I don’t—but _him_.” He patted Steve on the shoulder, who stirred a little, but, when no further summons came, slumped back down. “And I think, we didn’t sign up when it was easy and gettin’ easier. We told ourselves, we’d be there for each other, no matter how hard it got. And it got hard, Stark.” He drew in a slow, prolonged breath, bracing himself. “Your parents, Stark,” he said, and Tony’s heart began to pound. “They ordered me to kill them. So I said, _Yes, sir_. I made it quick. I made it quick,” he insisted.

Tony said, his tongue barely cooperating, “What’re you talking about?”

“That night, you know, the roads, they weren’t so good,” Barnes said, almost speaking without hearing him. “So I . . . I shot out the tire. Everyone thinks it blew out, damn things always did, but I—shot it. And it hit a tree. And—” He paused, blinking implacably at Tony, pointing a gun at his forehead, “And they died,” he said levelly, one hand still gentle on Steve’s back, Steve’s eyes closed, he wouldn’t even know, _he wouldn’t even know_. But of course he would, Tony thought, a tremble working everywhere through him but the gun pressed to Barnes’ forehead as Barnes went on, “Right on impact. It was quick. I’m very sorry about your Mom,” he said.

Tony stared at him until he blurred, until he couldn’t really _see_ the shape of his parents’ killer. He’d lived . . . _twenty years_ believing they’d died because of a fluke of fate. And now he was looking at the fluke. “I made it quick,” Barnes insisted. “I didn’t want them—to suffer. I just had a mission. I did it. And nobody . . . nobody ever woulda knew. ‘Cept me. And Hydra. They had—” He paused as Tony lowered the gun, saying in a surprisingly hoarse voice, “Thank you.”

“I don’t forgive you.” Tony’s voice sounded dead, too. He carefully flicked the safety on and returned his gun. Steve didn’t stir. “But I’m not _you_ , either. I don’t kill on a whim.”

“Yeah,” agreed Barnes, and nothing more, not throwing knives. “You’re a better man than me.”

Tony was numb, all over. “I have to take a walk,” he said, and realized his immediate dilemma, looking down at Steve.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Barnes offered charitably.

“Who else is here?” Tony asked at once.

“Oh,” Barnes said, and then grinned a little. “Some Falcon guy. Won’t give me his real name. You believe that?”

Tony warned, deadly serious, “Do not fuck with me.”

“I’m not,” Barnes assured, sparing a glance at Steve. “With you alone, maybe I would, but—this is my chance. To atone.”

“You don’t deserve it,” Tony whispered, letting the hateful whisper exist.

Barnes just nodded.

“Go. Have a walk,” he suggested. “We’ll be fine.”

Tony thought, _This is a stupid idea_.

He took a walk.

* * *

When he came back, tired and a little out of breath, Steve was curled up on his side on the couch, sound asleep. Poor bastard was exhausted, Tony thought, too wired to sleep even though it was dusk again, somehow. He really hated time zones. He wanted to crawl on top of Steve, soft as perfectly smooth marble, and fall asleep there. But he wasn’t alone.

“C’mon, man,” a familiar voice said, the sound of cards being laid down along with it emanating from the kitchen area.

“Fair and square,” chimed in Barnes.

 _You killed my mom._ Pops had had it comin’, for a long time, but—his Mom, his _Mom_ , she’d never deserved it. A life cut short.

He creaked noisily towards the kitchen, fingering his gun briefly before letting it go. He hadn’t shot Barnes point-blank; he wouldn’t do it now, when his ire was colder, still.

“Hey, you’re just in time,” Barnes greeted, shuffling a deck of cards. His hands shook a little. Tony didn’t miss that; he was too keen on the way Steve’s hands shook to miss it. “Want in?”

Tony looked at Sam, who shrugged, nodded at the third empty chair, and indicated, “Up to you.”

Looking between the two of them for an uncomfortably long time, Tony thought about his alternatives, and slowly took a seat. “Falcon,” he said, trying it out.

“Mm-hm,” Sam said. “When I was a pararescuer, that’s what my guys called me. Easier than _Sam two_. I’m your eyes in the skies.”

“Air Force?” Tony said, surprising himself, keeping a pointed distance from Barnes even as the latter dealt cards.

“Right? That’s what I said. No cajones,” Barnes chimed in. Sam kicked him under the table. Barnes said with force, “ _Ow_.”

“You know he kills people, right?” Tony said, ratting Barnes out as meanly as he could, disappointed that he only sounded vaguely whiny. “Killed my parents.”

“Man,” Sam said, with real feeling. “I’m sorry, Tony.” And he said it with such _sincerity_ , too. Tony hated how choked up he got.

“Lived my whole adult life, thinking they just, natural causes,” Tony said, stumbling over the words, stumbling to pick up his cards. “I mean, not—but not because someone—” The cards shook as he held them, tried to examine them. “You know you made me an orphan at twenty-one? No one cares when you’re twenty-one and alone. No one. That just means you’re—”

Sam rested a hand on his wrist. “Do you want to talk, Tony?” he asked, gentle, serious. Barnes was silent. There was nothing Barnes could possibly say that wouldn’t just make Tony feel sick for _not_ shooting him.

“No,” Tony croaked. “I want to play _cards_ , and not think, anymore. They keep liquor in here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Sam said. “I can make hot chocolate.”

“Pour some sugar on me,” Barnes said automatically.

Sam rolled his eyes audibly as he pushed back his chair. “Born in 1917, you know Def Leppard.”

“Unlike that guy in there,” Barnes said, tucking a thumb meaningfully towards the other room, “I do my homework.”

There was a prolonged pause as Sam set up the hot chocolate on the stove. Then he sat down, picked up his cards, made a show of grunting in displeasure, and said, “I swear, if you rigged this—”

“I did _not_ rig it,” Barnes grumbled. “You suck ass at Poker, don’t blame me.”

“Oh, I _blame you_ ,” Sam said emphatically. “I blame you a _lot_.”

Tony did, too, but he kept his mouth shut, turned the lights off on his brain, and automatically played cards as the two bantered nonstop. It seemed—therapeutic, for both of them, even though they got noisy to the point of shushing themselves, remembering belatedly that they weren’t alone in the cabin.

Tony was flicking through his cards blearily, sipping a sleep-inducing cup of hot chocolate, when he heard the familiar thumps. He didn’t look up, unable to watch Steve—but he didn’t collapse into Barnes’ arms, no, he wrapped them around Tony’s shoulders instead, hugging him from behind, crouched and shaking slightly, but still solid, firm, reassuringly _real_. “Hey, babe,” Tony said automatically, showing him his cards and said, “I’m skunked.”

Steve hummed, neither a yes or no, holding on gently, leaning into his chair firmly. “Sam made hot chocolate,” he added. “If you want some.”

“I can get you a cup?” Sam offered, making it a question.

Steve hummed again, then shook his head, withdrawing. He limped heavily over to the stove and, after reaching for the pot on it with his shaking hand, finally uttered quietly, “Dohne.”

Tony folded his cards down face-up, purposefully quitting the game as he got up and walked over, hip-to-hip as he poured out a mug, steadiest of hands. _What a simple gift_ , he thought, presenting Steve a cup. Steve held it in both hands as it trembled; Tony only filled it halfway so it didn’t splash on them.

“Tha-ank ‘ou,” he said.

Tony nodded once. “Thank Sam.”

Steve said softly, “Dohne.”

Unable to look at him, his earnest blue eyes full of— _something_ , and it had to be special, it had to be _Tony’s_ , but—Tony reclaimed his mug, announced, “I’m wiped,” and walked away, too wired to sit and pretend he was into the game.

He found his old room, and by some miracle, it was unoccupied. Shutting the door behind him, he sat on the bed, pulled out his phone, and texted, _I’m sad_ , to Pepper, who responded promptly:

_Why?_

_I miss Wakanda._

_You’re not in Wakanda?_

Tony tweedled his fingers over the phone for a moment. _Thought it was time_ , he said at last.

His phone rang. He answered: “Hey, honeybunch.”

“ _Did he die?_ ” Pepper asked solemnly.

Tony choked on it, shaking his head firmly even as he said, “ _No,_ n-no. God, no. Why would you even say that?”

“ _What was I supposed to think?_ ” Pepper retorted. “ _Is Steve okay?_ ”

“He’s _fine_ ,” Tony gritted out. “Look, if you wanted to talk to—”

“ _No, I just_ —” Sighing, Pepper said, “ _I’m sorry. I’m not being fair to you_.”

“Well,” Tony admitted, looking out the window at the moonlit world, “wouldn’t be the first time.”

“ _Making me regret saying it_.”

“Sorry. I’m just—” Drawing in a steadying breath, Tony said simply, “I’m coping. And I’m in Wyoming. You still on the West Coast? I could—”

“ _Why are you in Wyoming?_ ”

Circles and circles that all led to Steve. “I—owe it to someone.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Pepper said presciently.

“Tell me you’re on the West Coast?” Tony asked, wheedled.

“ _I’m in Vermont, visiting family_ ,” Pepper told him regretfully. Sadness washed over Tony. “ _It’s making me regret being part of a family_.”

“Well.” Flopping back on his bed, Tony sighed, “Sounds like a personal problem.”

There was a brief pause. “ _Are you okay, Tony?_ ” Pepper asked.

“Me? Wonderful. Clint taught the Vision how to shoot a gun.”

“ _What?_ ” Pepper yelped.

“No, I mean—marshmallow, he taught the Vision how to shoot a marshmallow gun.”

“ _Tony,_ ” Pepper said seriously, “ _does he know the distinction between a marshmallow gun and a real gun?_ ”

“Uhhh,” Tony began eloquently. “Yes. Probably.” He surreptitiously texted Clint: TEACH VIS DIFF. BETWN. REAL + FAKE GUN. OR ELSE.

“ _Well, good_ ,” Pepper said, sounding as doubtful as he felt as Clint texted back _lol_. “ _What’s wrong, Tony?_ ”

“What makes you think—”

“ _You sound sad. You are sad_.”

Sadly, Tony admitted, “I am sad.” Then, unable to confront it, he rolled over, face planted firmly in the mattress, and muttered, “I am an unloved cretin who will never—”

“ _Can’t hear you, honey_.”

Clearing his throat, Tony turned his head aside and repeated, “I am an unloved—”

The door handle twisted. It was the only warning Tony had before it opened. He half-expected Barnes, come to finish him off when he was most vulnerable, or even Sam, to ‘check in,’ but it was just Steve, who never knocked. “Oh. Hey, hon,” he said.

“ _What’s going on?_ ” Pepper prompted.

“I gotta—love you, goodnight.” He hung up. “Did Barnes cheat on you, too?” he asked. Steve frowned at him, not understanding, and Tony understood that—he meant to say, _Did Barnes deal you a bad hand, the cheater?_ But, well—“Never mind. C’mere.” It was easy, automatic, and Steve—he wanted desperately to believe gratefully sunk onto the space next to him. Leaving the little space left between them, Tony said, “So. Satisfied?” He was glad his voice was clinical, almost detached. This was about _Steve_. Barnes—he could hate Barnes on his own terms.

Steve looked at him, bluest of blue eyes dark in the moonlight. “Toe-ne,” he said, making the effort. “I—”

“You don’t have to say it,” Tony clipped, not sure he could handle anything, right now. “Really. I like—I think we should leave, tomorrow, and never come back.”

Steve didn’t blink, watching him. Reading him. Then he looked down, abashed, and repeated softly, “To-ne.”

“You want me to say I give you permission to love him?” Tony snipped, the words like a red hot poker to the heart. “I can’t. I won’t. I don’t,” he said simply. “There. I said it. I don’t like him. He—” _Hurt you. I don’t care what he was. I don’t care how much you two loved each other. He hurt you_. And yet—Steve still loved him. It fucking killed Tony. “I know. You love him. You—”

“I-I-I,” Steve stammered, and Tony wanted, so badly, to steamroller him—it would have been so easy, too easy, and then he never would’ve heard the end, the halting, “l-l-l-love, ‘ou. _‘ou_ ,” he repeated, trying to make the word cooperate more but not getting there. “’ou, Dohne,” he finished.

Tony stared at him. And stared some more. He rested a hand on Steve’s hip, thinking, processing, letting the gears turn slowly in his head. “Ou-kay?” Steve murmured.

Petting his hip, thinking, concentrating really hard on the words and their meaning and any possible misinterpretation he could find, Tony finally said slowly, “You—”

“ _Y-yes_ ,” Steve said, looking frustrated that he couldn’t get even that single word out without his body fighting him, always fighting him, couldn’t hold a spoonful of food without almost dropping it and yet—he— _loved_ —Tony.

Wow. That was—that was nice. A nice, warm feeling in his chest, more permanent and familiar than hot chocolate, a . . . a thing that felt like _home_ , like _of course_ , like _yes_.

“I—I love you,” he said, not proud that he stammered over the words, but the stars in Steve’s eyes were even brighter, glad to hear it but not—surprised, by it, and that was the wonderful, the almost devastating thing about it. “We’re really dumb, aren’t we?” he mused, shuffling closer, curling up so he could tuck his head under Steve’s chin. “Just a regular pair of emotional Stooges—”

Steve tossed an arm and a leg over him, hugging him. Tony sighed. “I have room in my heart. I can—for you.”

“For _‘ou_ ,” Steve impressed, and Tony—Tony got it, Tony understood, and Tony relaxed at the implicit permission.

_I want you to be happy, Steve. Even if it hurts me._

_You, too_.

He’d get over it. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully. If the world at large could somehow tolerate Barnes, then—well, he’d—work with it. For Steve. For Steve.

 _For_ you.

God, that tugged on his heart. “You’re really special, you know that?” he managed. “To me. You’re really special to _me_.” Fierce, devoted. _I’m me and you’re you and we’re us and that’s good_. It was silly and made almost no sense but he said it out loud, anyway, Steve’s happy hum worth it.

“I’d miss you so much if you were gone, sweetheart,” Tony sighed, clinging to him.

“Nah—ht gonna go,” Steve promised.

“Holdin’ you to it.”

* * *

_Six months later_.

The Accords were gone. With the Avengers effectively disbanded and Ross out of power, their driving force—to keep superhumans under leash—lost steam. It was nice, for once, to let the real firefighters take care of the blaze, even though Iron Man could be seen, every once in a while, quietly doing something above-and-beyond. Rumor had it even the less flashy Avengers were up to some good, quietly rescuing hostages, putting out proverbial fires whenever it wasn’t too obvious.

Like the League of Nations leading up to the United Nations, the Accords served as a failed precursor to a more successful antecedent, an Alliance that allowed nations to grant permission to certain registered heroes to respond to crises on their soil before a strictly regulated debriefing with the mother country. The formula of the Accords was reversed: react now, retribute later. Of 195 sovereign nations, only seven opted out—personal reasons. Sokovia, Tony was not surprised to learn, was one of them.

Being an Avenger and part of the Alliance sat well with Tony Stark, in a way that _signing the Accords_ had not. There was no bombing, no casualties as they stood and, one-by-one, signed the two-hundred-page document, the remains of a far more extensive piece meant to shackle them. 

Even though he was retired, Steve insisted on hearing out, understanding, and finally attending the signing itself. And then, hand shaking hard, barely able to write the letters—he had _practiced_ them, for days, just to be sure he wrote the S facing the right direction—Steve Rogers became the first to sign the Alliance. He didn’t stick around after for drinks and refreshments, but he did stammer out to Rhodey in passing, “Th-th-th-this ‘s a good d-d-day.”

“Really is,” Rhodey agreed, looking genuinely at ease for the first time in years. “Really is.”

Tony, for his part, enjoyed the surprisingly easy rapport Steve and Rhodey had, two Army guys, quiet, soulful, content to sit and drink sweat tea on the porch while looking over old photographs. Sam was still their buddy and clearly enjoyed the chance to tease them about their tragic heritage—the Air Force was clearly the superior branch of the defense forces—but he really hit it off with Barnes, who Tony was slowly learning to . . . tolerate.

As for the Vision, well, bless his heart—he had yet to shoot anyone with a real gun. In fact, he had sworn off all weaponry, including marshmallow guns, as a sign of his Alliance. Tony felt his heart was in the right place, and so did not correct him. Also: a baby, even a robot baby with super-human intelligence, with a gun, was simply terrifying.

And Tony?

* * *

“ _Ow_ ,” Tony whined. “ _Ow_. _Ow_.”

“Dohne,” Steve said, looking up at him as he winced his way across the floor, sunburned from head to toe. “Tol’ ‘ou.”

“Shut up. Shut up, or I’m getting a divorce, and we’re not even— _ohhh_ ,” he whimpered, crumpling delicately onto his sunburned front on the couch. “ _Owie_.”

Hawaii was lovely, _really_ lovely, especially in the winter when it was freezing cold in D.C.—as Rhodey took special pleasure in reminding him, daily, with increasingly grumpy pictures of him increasingly bundled up—but holy _fuck_ , the sunburns were fierce.

Whining continuously, Tony gasped when he felt cold hands settle on his back. Then he moaned extravagantly as Steve very, very carefully smeared aloe across him. “Oh, God, I _will_ , I _will_ marry you,” he exclaimed euphorically.

Grumbling inaudibly, Steve said carefully, “Wai—tuh. ‘Ti-ti-til I _as-kuh-kuh_.”

“Then _ask me_ , you sexy beast,” Tony swooned.

Sighing, Steve just kept slathering his back, hands shaking a little but not too bad today. Tony wanted to think it was because he was more relaxed—certainly, he had less on his plate, with Sam looking after the old girl and learning to chuck her like a proper frisbee. If anything, Tony almost envied him—the simple life. Sure, it was less about other people, less immediately about—

“Ohhh,” he moaned. “That’s _divine_.”

Steve hummed back, continued to gently rub aloe into his calves. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chanted.

“Uhh-huuh,” Steve agreed.

That was the _beauty_ of it, Tony decided, marinating on his belly for a time, letting the aloe soak, before carefully rolling over and afflicting his sincerest Bambi eyes on Steve. Steve just kissed his forehead, a bit off-center, and then rubbed aloe into his chest. Steve loved him, and if the rest of the world had a bit less of his blood splattered on the wall, well, at least Steve could endure a little peace. 

He looked peaceful, too, Tony thought indulgently, folding his arms gingerly behind his head, uttering a very soft, _Owie_ , even as Steve huffed in amusement and kept aloeing him up.

He was ninety-seven years old, after all. Maybe it was about damn time that he retire, Tony thought, leaning up to tangle a hand in his hair and kiss him properly.

It was about damn time that they both just live and let live.

Planting a hand gently over the scar tissue on his sternum, Steve kissed back. He couldn’t add stupendous numbers, like the tests post-serum indicated, nor could he run without risking a fairly catastrophic landing, nor even throw his own shield without risking damage to nearby persons, unintended. But he _could_ love. And he did. Immensely. 

He loved art, and the sunrise, and Tony Stark. He loved other things, too, of course, and Tony made a point of keeping raspberries on hand for how much Steve seemed to _love_ them, but he loved Tony most, and that was what _mattered_ most.

And Tony loved him in return, every bit as much.


End file.
